


Always Find Your Way Back

by Order_Of_The_Forks



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Connor is a witch i'm so sorry, Finished, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Modern Setting, Tree Bros, Tree Bros AU, they're out of school, this is why i need therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-04-19 22:03:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14246691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Order_Of_The_Forks/pseuds/Order_Of_The_Forks
Summary: With a shaking hand, he pulled a bottle from his jacket pocket and dropped it onto the ground, mud splattering on the orange plastic. “Please.” His voice trembled with every word. “I need to be happy.”





	1. prologue

Connor was no stranger to visitors at Birchwood.

Almost every week someone stopped by, begging to find a lost love one or bring revenge to an enemy.

But he… he was unexpected.

It was a shitty, rainy October day, the kind where most people stayed inside, reading a book by the fire or baking brownies and Connor was stuck outside, harvesting his fucking herbs and trying to shield himself from the onslaught of rain.

In the window, Tituba meowed with disdain before returning to her daily grooming. 

Connor hummed under his breath as he threw handfuls of rosemary in the plastic grocery bag in his hand. The rustling of the bag combined with the rain meant that Connor didn’t hear him approach until he was standing right in the basil.

Connor looked up. 

He was a mess, to say the least; shaking and stumbling with tears running down his face. For a good few seconds the two stood there, staring at each other with confusion and helplessness respectively.

“I need to be happy,” he said at last. 

“What?” Connor asked, dumbly.

With a shaking hand, he pulled a bottle from his jacket pocket and dropped it onto the ground, mud splattering on the orange plastic. “Please.” His voice trembled with every word. “I need to be happy.”


	2. sweet red wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evan woke up to the sound of howling wind.

With a shaking hand, he pulled a bottle from his jacket pocket and dropped it onto the ground, mud splattering on the orange plastic. “Please.” His voice trembled with every word. “I need to be happy.”

Then he collapsed. 

Connor dropped the bag of rosemary. “Shit.”

Connor fumbled to find a pulse, eventually contenting himself with the frantic beat on the man’s limp neck before trying to go about the issue of getting this weird-ass stranger inside and out of the freezing rain.

Needless to say, both parties were equally soaked by the time the mystery visitor was set lying on Connor’s rickety wooden bed as Connor frantically googled what to do in such a situation.

Unfortunately, the only thing it seemed he could do was wait. That or call the police, which he definitely wasn’t about doing. Connor hadn’t paid his property tax in over a year and he wanted to keep it that way. Sure, he would pay taxes to make sure the roads in town were paved and the little kids were getting school lunches, but he didn’t make nearly enough money to fork over half of his cash to the government so they would let him continue to live at an abandoned hut in the middle of nowhere, seven miles from the nearest sign of civilization. So 911 was out.

Tituba seemed agitated by the whole affair. She padded nervously about the kitchen, knocking over bottles and making a general mess of things. In all honesty, Connor couldn’t blame her.

Connor made three trips to the woodpile out back to restock the small potbelly stove next to the bed while he, who Connor had taken to calling John Doe, was passed out.

It was cold outside; Connor figured John Doe would appreciate being warm when he finally woke up. 

Connor prepared some canned chicken soup and ate it by the window. John Doe snored softly.

As he watched the black clouds roll above the trees, Connor felt the urge to go out in the rain, pick up the dropped bottle of pills and swallow every single one. 

Instead, he mechanically ate his soup, each piece of food a chalky pill slipping down his throat.

There was a sticky note on the wall with the message “CLAIRE ATKINS TRUE LOVE POTION” scrawled in large block letters across the small yellow square.

Connor sighed and set down his bowl of soup, snatching the sticky note off of the wall. Of course Claire Atkins wanted a true love potion. How could he have forgotten? She was a hopeless romantic; she asked for a new love spell almost every week. Connor was pretty sure he had enchanted almost half of the town’s men by now, but to no avail. Magic could only do so much. But although Claire was an annoying thorn in his side, she was one of the most loyal and well-paying customers Connor had, so he shoved away his indignation and opened his spellbook.

Connor’s ‘spellbook’ was actually a battered black-and-white composition notebook he had tucked in a cupboard between his spice rack and an old world history textbook he had never given back to his tenth-grade history teacher. It was dog-eared and stained, with loose sheets of paper tucked between the pages. One of the first pages in the notebook was a messy love potion spell, the ink smeared and a mysterious red stain across the bottom half, obscuring the text along the bottom. It had been given to him in such a condition by one woman who came upon his house when he had first started living at Birchwood, claiming that her grandmother was an Armenian witch and that she wanted him to have this potion recipe, that she had had a dream wherein she found his house and gave him the yellowing scrap of paper tucked in her family Bible in the basement. 

Connor had never known what the bottom text said, but customers who had used it were always pleased and payed a hefty sum, and that was all he needed. 

The recipe was centered around the magical number 9, but Connor had never believed much in magical numbers; he tended to throw measurements in slapdash and lazy.

Into the pot went ‘9 oz’ of sweet red wine, a gross old bottle of cherry Manischewitz with the label, and therefore expiration date, scratched off. He tended to make too much of everything, shoving leftover potions and herbal remedies in leftover coke bottles and mayo jars and leaving them to sit in the root cellar to sell on days when he went to the farmer’s market by the episcopal church and pretended he fit in amongst the sea of rural salesmen and hipsters too pretentious to go to Whole Foods. 

As the wine came to a low simmer, he lit nine pink candles around the kitchen, murmuring the chant inscribed in the corner of the page underneath his breath as he did so. Connor cringed internally. He had always hated chanting, he thought it was stupid. However, he couldn’t knock the consistent success of whispering “sure as holy bells do ring, academic luck you bring” over a pen or talisman for some stressed-out teenager five feet from a panic attack. Without fail, as soon as finals were over they would bring in twenty dollars and news of an A.

The pot began to boil and Connor abandoned the candles, still humming the chant under his breath to a weird dissonant tune that seemed right at the time, somehow. Into the pot went the basil leaves, red rose petals, cloves, apple seeds, and ginseng root. As that gross mixture stewed he added a few drops from his costco bottle of vanilla extract, along with the contents of two juice boxes, strawberry and apple juice respectively. 

Connor snuck a swig of the wine, grimacing at the dregs that came up. He was going to have to make another trip to the store soon. 

As he stirred the concoction counter-clockwise, as per the instructions, Connor brought his chanting to full volume, although still careful not to wake the man in the other room. 

“Let the one who drinks this wine

Learn to love with love divine;

Loving potion number nine,

Make his heart forever mine.”

 

~

 

Evan woke up to the sound of howling wind.

Well, it was a mix of sounds. Clinking bottles, the downpour of rain against the glass of a window somewhere, a crackling fireplace. Distant humming, lilting and minor. 

The room he was in was dark but cozy, a warm glow emanating from a small woodburning stove perched next to the bed. Long garlands of dried herbs and fruits hung suspended from the rafters, and jars of honey with herbs suspended in the mixture filled the one window in the room. Evan could imaging the sun shining through the honey on bright days.

Above the bed, there was a dreamcatcher-like thing in the shape of a pentagram as well as a mysterious symbol carved into the wooden headboard.

Definitely the weirdest place he had ever woken up.

Evan’s mouth was impossibly dry and his stomach growled in protest. When was the last time he had eaten? Maybe two days ago?

He instinctively reached down to his jacket pocket. They weren’t there. Evan frantically searched every possible place it could be, but to no avail. His pills were gone.

Evan’s heart raced. Who had taken them? Where was he?

Oh god, where was he?

The doorknob turned. Someone was coming in. Evan felt his heart stop beating. He screwed his eyes shut. If he was going to be murdered, he wouldn’t want to see. Maybe they would be nice to him and just shoot him in the head, quick and painless. At least, he hoped it would be painless.

A pair of footsteps made their way over to the bed, pausing just next to Evan. He hoped he looked asleep. The mystery person placed what sounded like two cups on the stove and, after hesitating a few more seconds, turned and left.

Evan immediately sat up. He was still alive. Good.

Next to the bed was a glass of water and a bowl of alphabet soup. Not really what Evan would’ve chosen, but it was food and he was pretty sure his stomach had started to eat itself. 

Evan grabbed the bowl and started to wolf down the soup, completely disregarding any manners his mother had taught him. Once the bowl was completely empty, he chugged the water and set it back down with a sigh. At least his murderer didn’t want him to go out on an empty stomach. 

Before he could lie back down, the door opened.

“You’re awake.”

The stranger in question was not the reclusive elderly woman Evan was hoping for, nor the dangerous, crazy axe murderer he was expecting. Instead, it was a tall and lanky man about Evan’s age, wearing ripped jeans and an oversized sweatshirt. There was a stubby pencil tucked behind his ear, swallowed up by the man’s mass of curly brown hair. He held an unmarked bottle in one hand, the kind that water came in at fancy restaurants, except it was filled to the brim with a dark red liquid. 

Probably poison.

The man set down the bottle. “I could hear the bed creaking,” he explained.

Evan could only stare.

“Um.” He stuck out his hand as if expecting Evan to shake it. Like this was a perfectly normal business meeting. “I’m Connor Murphy. This is my house. It’s called Birchwood. Because of, um, the trees. You passed out in my yard, remember?”

Evan didn’t really remember anything. He remembered stealing his roommate’s bottle of painkillers, fleeing out the back door, and then…

“N-no.”

“Well, you did.” The man said this very matter-of-factly, as if people fainted in front of him all the time. Maybe they did; Evan still wasn’t completely sure he wasn’t a murderer. “And, uh, you had a bottle of pills with you?”

Evan opened his mouth to speak.

“No, I’m not going to give them to you.” He crossed his arms. “I’ll give them back if you prove to me you’re mentally stable and-or your name is Will Flack and you really did have knee surgery last week.”

Evan’s mouth was still dry.

“Alrighty. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do right now. Do you want me to call 911 or something? Or a family member?”

Evan shook his head. “I-I’m fine. I just- I was tired. And hungry. I just, um, I needed to sleep it off.”

“Okay.” Connor took Evan’s dishes. “If you need anything, just tell me. We’ll talk about… this later.”

And he left.

The bottle of unmarked poison was sitting innocently next to a small pentagram laced with herbs on a small shelf. Evan needed to get out. He wasn’t safe here, that was for sure. He needed to wait until the stranger, Connor, left the house and he could make a break for it.

Through the window, Evan could see the rain coming down in sheets. The wind howled like a lost spirit. Inside, it was warm and Evan was full- or at least less hungry- and the whole place smelled like a kitchen. Connor hummed as something boiled in the room over.

Maybe, just maybe, he could stay a little longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey ummm chapter 2?? neato  
> if you're reading this thanks?? i don't know why though


	3. basil leaves, fresh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evan stood in the doorway, at a loss for what to do.

The sun had set by the time Evan got out of bed.

His legs ached; how far had he walked to get here?

Evan pushed open the door, hoping to find an empty house, perfect to run before he got brutally murdered. 

Instead, it was the opposite. Connor was stooped over a pot on the stove, humming along to a song playing from his phone. A lithe black and brown mottled cat came over to Evan, rubbing its head against his ankles.

Connor snapped his fingers and the cat perked up, returning to its owner and jumping gracefully on the small kitchen’s counter. “He might not like cats, Tubie.”

Evan stood in the doorway, at a loss for what to do. 

“Can you get me, uh… the jar of white rose petals?” Connor asked, holding out his arm as if expecting Evan to place the jar into his awaiting hand. 

“Um… where?”

“The open cabinet over there. Everything should be marked clearly. Yeah, and can you grab me a black candle?” 

Evan retrieved a jam jar of what he was pretty sure were white rose petals and a stubby black candle. Connor took them, opened the jar, and dumped a handful of the petals into the pot. “Cool. Thanks.”

Then, a second later, “you’re up!”

Evan attempted a smile. “Yeah.”

“How’re you feeling?”

“Uh- not good.”

Connor shrugged. “I made hot dogs if you’re hungry.”

Evan hated accepting food. He always felt like he was inconveniencing the other person. He should turn it down, and besides, it could be poisoned. “No-”

His own growling stomach betrayed him.

Connor laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes. You can sit over at that table.”

Evan took a seat at the small wooden table in the corner of the kitchen. His chair was unfortunately close to what looked like an altar, with candles and books and creepy designs and bottles full of god-knows-what.

Connor plated up a couple hot dogs and buns, as well as tucking a bottle of ketchup under his arm before setting them down on the table, acting as though it was normal to have weird carvings in the table that looked like magical signs.

Evan pointed to one. “What’s this?” He asked against his better judgement.

Connor squinted at the small design. “It’s a sigil,” he said casually. “‘Protect this home’, I think.”

Then he went back to putting together a hot dog as if everybody had sigils carved into their furniture. 

Evan tentatively took a bun, tearing off small pieces of the bread and eating them nervously. ‘Poison,’ his mind reminded him. ‘Poison, poison, poison.’

Connor looked up at Evan. “You can eat hot dogs, right? Are you vegetarian?”

“N-No. I, um, I just-” Evan shut himself up by grabbing a hot dog, burning his fingers in the process. He slowly began to eat. However, his stomach didn’t seem to mind that he was being poisoned and soon, the two had finished the plate of hot dogs.

Connor stood up and poured a glass of some brownish liquid. “Do you want some?” He asked.

Evan shook his head.

“Okay.” Connor sat back down and took a long sip of his gross brown drink. “We need to talk shit out. Who are you?”

“E-Evan Hansen.”

“Cool. I’m Connor, I told you this already.”

Evan nodded.

“Why are you here?” 

“I- I don’t know.” Evan picked at his cuticles. “There’s- there are blank spots.”

Connor sighed. “Okay. Where do you live?”

“Harrisville.”

“Shit,” Connor remarked. “That’s like, three towns over. Do you have family in Harrisville?”

Evan shook his head.

“Any friends that could pick you up? This isn’t a hotel, you know.”

“No,” Evan’s voice barely came out above a whisper. “I can’t go back.”

“Oh.” Connor seemed speechless.

“It’s- I can’t.”

“Okay.” Connor bit his lip. “Okay.”

Evan felt his heart lift, despite his brain screaming that it was all a trick and he was going to get killed. “Okay?”

“Okay.” There was silence. “I’ll sleep in the root cellar. You can take my bed.”

“Really?” 

“Sure.” Connor stood up. “On one condition.”

Oh no. 

“I’mnothavingsexwithyou!” Evan blurted suddenly.

“What? No!” 

Evan paled. “I-I’m sorry-”

“I don’t want you to have sex with me. Jesus fuck. Oh my god,” Connor laughed. “I was going to say you would be my apprentice.”

“Your… ap-apprentice?”

“Do you know what I do here?”

Evan shook his head. 

“I’m a witch?” Connor said this as if it were supposed to ring bells of recognition in Evan’s head. It certainly did ring something- alarm bells. 

He was going to bunk with a witch.

“I need someone to help me make spells and buy shit for me. Especially now that harvest season is in full swing, I really need another set of hands.” Connor raised one eyebrow. “So, what do you say? I’ll let you stay here, and you’ll help me out.”

Evan nodded. “O-okay.”

Connor grinned. “Great. Can you grab me that sage?”

 

~

 

Connor didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. 

Who was he, letting strangers into his home?

He could barely take care of himself, much less some guy he had never met before.

But Evan was made for the craft, Connor knew that.

In about a day, Connor had discovered the connection the man had to nature, how closely he was entwined with the earth. He actually enjoyed gathering vegetables from the small garden out back, and didn’t mind that Connor’s outdoor shower was a piece of shit. He had payed seventy bucks and a pumpkin to get someone to set it up; you get what you pay for, that was for sure.

Plus, he was good at sweeping.

So Connor kept him around. He didn’t push why he couldn’t go back to Harrisville. He didn’t ask how he had ended up at Birchwood. Didn’t ask who Will Flack was and how Evan had ended up with his prescription painkillers.

Connor had always hated the tedious task of stringing pieces of fruit and vegetable and herbs onto string and letting them air dry, hung from the ceiling like a canopy of sage and rosemary and shriveled apples. But he liked doing it with Evan. He liked laughing and sharing their favorite songs and remarking on how the herbs made the small house smell heavenly.

He pretended that he didn’t watch Evan dance outside or that he knew that he played the old acoustic guitar in the shed when Connor wasn’t watching.

He was watching.

And he was scared at how enthralling another person could be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sup fam comment and shit please


	4. red rose petals, fresh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With October came harvesting season, along with the final few farmer’s markets of the year.

With October came harvesting season, along with the final few farmer’s markets of the year. 

Connor had slowly been picking ripe apples from the scattering of trees around the house, preparing them in whatever way he could find just to use them up. The pumpkins were plump and orange and ready for the picking. Soon, people from all over would come to Birchwood to buy their pumpkins and drink hot cider and debate jack-o-lantern designs. Connor would sit on the rocking chair on his porch, telling kids the history of the jack-o-lantern and stories about Halloween as he stuffed their parents’ money into a small jar by the door. 

Evan and Connor set out one afternoon laden with baskets and the instructions to pick every ripe apple left in the forest. 

Three hours and five trips back to the house later, the kitchen was full of apples of every kind and the trees were all empty.

Connor put his hands on his hips surveyed the myriad of fruit filling his kitchen.

All Evan could do was laugh.

Tituba meowed petulantly, and Evan went to fill her food bowl.

It was all too perfect.

There were a few non-magical things Connor always sold at the farmer’s market: pumpkins, apples, apple sauce and cider, and soap. 

It seemed that nobody could get enough of homemade soap, especially Connor’s. Hipsters liked it because it was made by human hands; moms liked it because the herbs smelled good and looked pretty in their bathrooms.

Connor decided to allocate the task of soap making to Evan while he got to work cutting and preparing the apples.

He had always hated making soap, but Evan didn’t seem to mind. He was strong, and stirring a boiling pot for a godless amount of time didn’t seem to bother him. Connor always coughed when he added the lye, Evan simply lifted his shirt over his mouth and worked on. As they went about their duties in comfortable silence, Evan seemed restless.

“Why did you start doing this?” Evan asked. “You know, your… witching.”

Connor shrugged and swept a pile of apple peels into the trash. “I mean, I moved out here after high school. I wasn’t a witch until later.”

“Huh.”

Connor dumped a handful of peeled apple cubes into a bowl and started on another. “What do you do?”

“Oh. Um. I work at, um, Pottery Barn?”

Connor snorted. “Classy.”

“Well, I used to. I-I guess I, um, don’t anymore.”

“You’ve got a better job now.” Connor cut his finger with the paring knife and winced at the blood. “Shit! Oh, motherfucker!”

“Are you okay?”

Evan’s voice sounded watery and distant. Connor dropped the knife on the counter and clutched at his hand. He hated bleeding. When was the last time he had bled?

Almost immediately the warm environment of the house melted away, replaced by the bathroom of his family home. The white walls, the white tile. The red blood on the floor. The blood on his arms, his shirt, everywhere. 

Connor was cold. The ambulance lights flashed. His head ached. His arms ached.

Everything hurt and there was blood everywhere. Everywhere.

Everywhere.

“Connor?” Someone said, desperate.

Zoe, his sister, who had called 911. 

Who had saved his life, for better or for worse.

“Connor!”

No, not Zoe.

It was someone else.

“Connor, what’s wrong?”

There was a hand on his shoulder, gentle and concerned. No, that wasn’t right. Nobody had touched his shoulder. Nobody had wanted to touch him; the nurses were strictly business.

Connor didn’t want to open his eyes.

But he did.

“Connor, please.”

It was Evan.

He felt the air leave his lungs. Connor fell to his knees, the smear of red on his finger the only thing he could see.

“Hey. Look at me. It’s just- it’s a tiny cut.” Evan tilted Connor’s chin up so that he couldn’t look at his hands and Evan’s fingertips against the bottom of his chin hurt, somehow. Like he was going to puke. Connor recoiled and Evan snatched his hand away as if it burned. “Do you have band-aids?”

Connor nodded and took a deep breath. “In the cabinet under the sink.”

He closed his eyes after that. Connor could hear Evan’s footsteps, he could feel Evan carefully wrapping the band-aid around his fingertip and when he opened his eyes, there was a tiny Spider-Man band-aid on his index finger, just like the band-aids his mom used when he got scrapes as a little kid.

Connor sighed. “Make sure you haven’t ruined the soap, Hansen.”

“Make sure I-” Evan seemed like he was going to protest, that if anybody ruined the soap it was Connor for having a breakdown over a tiny cut, but he closed his mouth and walked back over to the pot. 

Connor stood up and leaned against the counter, dropping the paring knife in the sink.

“Do you need to- I can take over if you need to take a break,” Evan offered.

“I’m fine.” He wasn’t fine. He was far from fine. The small orange bottle of pills hidden in a flowerpot in the shed seemed to be burned into his vision. “I think I’ve cut enough apples to start on the cider. Just… keep working.”

Evan bit his lip. “O-okay.”

 

~

 

Everything was finished in record time, due to another pair of hands helping out. 

Connor retrieved the guitar from the shed and strummed it lazily as Evan canned and labelled the fresh applesauce. 

The simmering cider filled the house with heavenly spices, and Tituba purred lethargically as she stretched out in front of the crackling fire.

“Do you, uh, want to-to talk about it?” Evan asked, breaking the silence.

“No.” 

Evan didn’t look satisfied with that answer.

“It’s none of your business, Hansen.”

“Okay.” 

And they went back to work. Evan taught Connor some sort of stupid song about the Mason-Dixon line, something he had apparently learned extensively about due to his growing up in Pennsylvania. 

Evan was a good singer, when he came in at the chorus singing harmony Connor got chills. 

Tituba curled up on Evan’s lap and meowed contentedly.

“Tubie likes you.” Connor commented. “That’s high praise.”

Evan petted her tentatively. “Hi, kitty.”

When they unmolded the cooled soap the next day, Connor found that Evan had succeeded. They wrapped the slick squares in brown waxy paper at the kitchen table, sipping fresh cider and singing the Mason-Dixon line song at the top of their lungs until Tituba meowed at them to stop.

Evan went to take a shower with a bar of the new lavender soap and returned fifteen minutes later in a pair of Connor’s pajama pants and a sweatshirt, wet and sweet-smelling and grinning.

Connor smelled the lavender on his skin every time he leaned across the table to grab another piece of paper.

Evan dangled a string over the edge of the table, making Tituba leap for it. He laughed as she squirmed and jumped around his feet.

For the first time in what seemed like years, Connor smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sup fam  
> uuhhhh thanks for all your comments??? it's wild for me to write so many chapters in a day but i'm on a roll i guess


	5. whole cloves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They had a pattern, it seemed, of not talking about things.

Connor didn’t want to listen in, he really didn’t.

But he was craving any sort of information on Evan, who was still virtually a stranger. He knew that he lived in Harrisville and his favorite childhood book was The Secret Garden. But besides that, he was no one. 

So when his phone rang and Evan picked it up frantically, saying a hushed “Jared?” into the phone as he rushed into his bedroom, Connor followed.

Connor dropped the sachet he was making and ran to the door, pressing his ear against the wood.

He didn’t speak for a while. Probably the person on the other line was talking.

Evan seemed to be pacing around inside. “I can’t,” he said at last.

More silence.

“You know what happened,” he argued with the person on the phone. “I can’t go back there.”

“I had to leave.” 

“No. I moved out, she’ll be better without me.”

“I can’t, Jared.”

“I can’t do it to her. She just got rid of me.”

“How am I not a burden?”

“I need to go.”

“I’m staying with a friend.”

“Yeah. He’s nice.”

“I’m not sleeping on the road, I promise.”

“Bye, Jared.”

Connor backed away from the door before Evan opened it. Sure, he was a bit too close to make it seem like he was casually passing by, and sure, all the color drained from Evan’s face when he saw Connor by the doorway, but it wasn’t obvious.

Connor wasn’t eavesdropping, just curious.

If Evan was talking loudly, that was his fault.

 

~

 

They had a pattern, it seemed, of not talking about things. 

Connor wanted answers, that was for sure.

But Evan didn’t seem like he could give them. 

Connor didn’t typically work on Saturdays, partly out of principle and partly out of laziness. Evan joked that it was perfect, as it gave him an excuse to observe the Sabbath.

However, work had become an excuse not to talk. To go about in cozy silence side by side without talking about anything at all. Usually on Saturdays, Connor slept in, read a book, and drank a horrid amount of tea. At his old house, he would probably watch TV or something, but there was no internet out in the devil’s asshole where he lived. Whenever Connor went into town to buy things he always made sure to pop into an internet cafe, log onto their wifi, and make sure World War 3 hadn’t started while he was off the grid.

Connor decided to take out an old box of acrylic paints and do some artwork, something he hadn’t done in a long time. He taped a large piece of brown paper to the wall and painted his view out of the window, the pumpkin patch and the shed and the trees in the distance.

Without realizing it, a figure had taken form in the window of the shed. It looked vaguely Evan-ish, stringing a bundle of herbs above the windowsill. Connor frowned and kept painting.

The trees slowly began to take shape as Connor filled out the leaves. The pumpkins three-dimensional, the shed warm and inviting, the figure in the window undoubtedly Evan.

“That’s really good,” came a voice from behind him.

“Jesus, Hansen. Are you a fucking ghost?”

Evan laughed. “I wear socks.”

“Yeah, right. Even the fucking cat is quieter than you.” 

Evan laughed again and leaned into Connor’s side, studying the painting. His arm was pressed against Connor’s, which was, to say the least, something. Evan had gotten more comfortable with touching Connor. Connor had not.

He felt his throat close involuntarily, that feeling like he couldn’t breathe and that he needed to cough or puke or do anything to shake the tightness in his throat. 

Evan seemed unfazed.

“Who’s that?” Evan asked, pointing to the most definitely Evan figure in the window.

“Oh. Uh… no one. Just a person.” Connor shrugged. “What are you going to do today?”

“I don’t know.” Evan said. “I, uh, I found an apple pie recipe in a cookbook earlier.”

“Love, peace, and healing,” Connor offered, dabbing a spot of brown on the underside of one of the pumpkins.

“Um… what?”

“I don’t just have random pie recipes. It’s a spell.” Connor stepped back and eyed the painting before swooping back in with more brown. “It’s great if you want love, peace, or healing. Also, just a damn good pie.”

“Well, we need to-to use up the apples.” Evan stepped away from Connor, and he immediately felt a rush of relief. “Besides, what’s wrong with love and healing?”

Connor was an idiot.

This thought hit him like a truck. He was so, so stupid. What was he doing, bringing this random person into his life, pretending to apprentice them and living some shitty domestic life with a stranger? They acted like they were married, they really did.

But they didn’t know each other.

Connor didn’t know what had happened in Harrisville, he didn’t know Evan’s life or even his goddamn middle name. All he knew was that he had shown up at Birchwood with an impossible plea for happiness and Connor had ushered him into his life, no questions asked.

“You said,” Connor began slowly, “that you wanted me to make you happy.”

Evan looked ashamed. “I was- I don’t know.”

“Sure. Let’s say you were fucked up. But you said you needed to be happy and I have done nothing to deliver on that.” Connor rubbed at his temples, smearing paint across his face in the process. “I didn’t even make you a fucking spell, oh my god.”

“No. No, no, no.” Evan grinned. “I don’t want a spell.”

“But-”

“I’m happier now.”

And if Connor wanted to throw him out before, there was no way he could do it now. Not when Evan smiled shyly, not when Evan reached up and wiped the smear of paint off of Connor’s forehead.

“Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit i need to stop writing
> 
> i have a lab report i need to do oh my god


	6. apple seeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evan was really, really stupid.

Evan was really, really stupid.

He was an absolute imbecile. There was no way that this whole… situation would work out. Connor was a stranger. In all honesty, he wasn’t even 100% sure he really wasn’t a murderer.

Every time Connor left to go pick fresh lemongrass or take a shower or go down to the root cellar to sleep, Evan’s instincts told him to run right out the front door without thinking twice. It was only a few miles from town, where could probably hitch a ride from there and probably make it at least a few towns over before Connor even realized he was gone. This was the logical thing to do; to leave and go stay with someone he knew and trusted.

But every time Connor laughed or snapped for Tituba or made hot tea for the two of them, that will to run got a little bit weaker. Every time Connor made a stupid joke or played his weird folk music or quirked his right eyebrow in that way he did when he cooked, as if judging the choices of everyone around him, Evan wanted to stay. He wanted to stay and live with Connor forever in his little haven of a house, bathing in an awful open-air shower and washing his hair with homemade lye soap.

He knew he should run, but he couldn’t bring himself to.

 

~

 

Three days before Halloween, Connor pulled a grimy pickup truck out from behind the shed and began loading it up with seemingly anything he could find. Bottles of potions and tinctures and herbal mixtures and sachets and sage to burn. Candles engraved with sigils and little wreaths in the shapes of pentagrams. The small soaps. The cans of applesauce Evan had so meticulously labeled.

And then finally, the piece de resistance, a pointy black witch’s hat.

“I got it at Target,” Connor explained. “I figured we could take turns wearing it. You know, for the meme.”

For some reason, Evan was pleased to know that Connor knew what memes were.

They then got into the truck themselves, ready to leave the house for the first time since Evan had arrived.

As Connor navigated the winding, bumpy roads, Evan leaned his head against the window and planned his escape.

They would go to town and set up. At a reasonable time, Evan would excuse himself to use the bathroom. Then he would go to a bus stop or a train station and try and sneak his way out.

It was the perfect plan.

They arrived in town, a small place with a single nice restaurant, a tiny high school, and four different churches.

The lawn in front of the episcopal church was already full of vendors setting up tables and chatting amiably with others. Connor parked the truck right on the lawn, where he opened up the flatbed and waited.

It occurred to Evan that they had never packed a table; Connor was just going to sell out of his truck.

Evan stood in the shade of the truck, hiding from people and the sun. As stupid as Connor’s hat made him look, it was a smart choice for such a sunny day. People came and went, slowly chipping away from the pile of stuff.

One customer, after buying a candle with the sigil ‘love this home’ and a lavender soap, chatted for five minutes with Connor, who looked like he wanted out. Her two kids squirmed in their place next to sides, leaning over and making silly faces at each other. 

The little girl pointed at Evan, who was virtually cowering in the shade. “Who’s that?”

The mom mussed with her hair. “Don’t be rude,” she chastised. 

Connor just laughed. “You can’t hide from the customers, Hansen.”

“It’s bright out there,” Evan whined, shielding his eyes from the sun with a hand as he made his way out of the shadow.

“Well, here,” Connor took off the hat, leaving his hair a staticky mess. He plopped it on Evan’s head and smiled at his handiwork. “You can have the hat.”

Evan pulled the wide brim of the hat down over his eyes, squinting as the sun beat down. “Thanks,” he muttered.

“I’ve never seen you before,” the woman said. “What’s your name?”

“Evan, um, Evan Hansen.” He considered shaking the woman’s hand, but judging by his sweaty palms, he opted to just smile. 

“He’s my apprentice,” Connor said. He sounded proud of the fact. 

“How nice,” the woman asked. “How did you two meet?”

Even just that simple question made Evan feel sick to his stomach. He could almost hear the rattling of the pill bottle in his pocket. An indecipherable cloud of emotion passed Connor’s face. “Chance,” he said finally, crossing his arms with a frown.

Thankfully, they were saved by the little boy tugging on his mom’s sleeve and begging for “mini pupkin pies!”

Connor laughed politely and sent the family on their way. 

“I hate suburban moms,” he said with a scowl once they were out of earshot.

Evan rolled his eyes. “My suburban mom was nice.” 

Connor snorted. “You had an outlier.”

“What were you like when you were a kid?” Evan blurted. Connor didn’t respond, looking up at the sun and gnawing at his lip. “Sorry. You, uh. You don’t have to, um, answer if you don’t want to.”

“No, no, you’re fine.” Connor sighed. “I was… I was a good kid. At least when I was little. I like to think I was fine during elementary school.” 

“What about later?” Again came the far-off look. Connor squinted into the distance, toying with the sleeve of his jacket. “Sorry.”

“No. No, stop apologizing. I’d just… I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh.” There was thick, unsettling silence for a while. “I need to use the bathroom.”

Connor gave him a look that seemed to say, ‘why are you asking to go to the bathroom, you’re not in high school anymore.’ 

So Evan just got up and left.

He wandered around the small town for a while. There was a bus stop just outside of a grocery store, and Evan sat down next to an elderly man who looked like he had gone brain dead just waiting for the bus.

For fifteen minutes Evan sat next to the old man, watching cars drive by and waiting for something, anything to happen. 

Then he went back.

When Connor asked what took him so long, he just shrugged.

 

~

 

Connor hated people; that’s why Evan was so surprised when Connor announced that they were opening up the pumpkin patch and, subsequently, the house.

“I’m just… it’s so that they can come in and drink some cider and rest and shit.” Connor explained as he stuck apple halves with cloves to stew in the bubbling cider. “It’s not like I’m inviting strangers into my home.”

The implications of that sentence hung suspended in the air between, pungent and obnoxious as the skunk smell Tituba had brought into the house earlier.

Because Evan was still a stranger, no matter how friendly the two were. Hell, Connor still refused to call him by his first name. 

He said it was more professional that way.

As if Evan wasn’t sleeping in Connor’s bed every night.

He could still run.

The door was so close, and besides, Connor’s back was turned.

“Can you put aside some of the scrawny pumpkins before people get here? I want to make a pie for Thanksgiving.” Connor took a sip of the cider from his large wooden ladle, smiled, and offered the ladle to Evan.

“Not unless you pour me my own glass,” he said.

Connor laughed and put down the ladle. “And waste dish water?”

Come to think of it, the door was pretty far.

Evan and Connor went to work cleaning the house for guests, sweeping both dirt and negative energy out the door, putting away books, and singing loudly and rambunctiously. Evan taught another song from his childhood, a World War II era song that had an air of joy and sorrow at the same time, somehow. 

Connor sent Evan down to the end of the winding path leading to Birchwood to ‘direct traffic’. As he made his way down the dirt road on foot, the lilting strains of Darling, Won’t You Wait became softer and softer until Evan couldn’t hear them at all.

It seemed like hundreds of cars came down the road, most with little kids bickering in the back or big dogs sticking their heads out of the windows, sticking their tongues out as if to lap up the crisp fall air.

Eventually, after the traffic had died down, Evan left his sign by the roadside and journeyed back. When he arrived, the house was a bustling hub of energy. The small cottage had been completely transformed; Evan had never seen it so busy.

A little girl swung gleefully on a tire swing Evan had never really noticed before. There were so, so many dogs. 

Out in the back, Connor looked fairly overwhelmed. When he saw Evan, his relieved smile could’ve rivaled the sun.

“Thank god, Hansen.” Connor handed a plump orange pumpkin to a lumberjack-esque looking man. “I always forget how much I hate this shit.”

Evan took the twenty the lumberjack handed him and pocketed it, smiling politely. “Then-then why do you do it?”

“Why do you think?” Connor said with a shrug. “I’ve got to pay the bills somehow.”

As Evan served various townsfolk fresh cider in the kitchen, he watched fondly through the window as Connor told a gaggle of children some sort of scary Halloween story as he sat in the old rocking chair with that stupid Target hat. 

Tituba let out a horrified “mrow!” as a little girl picked her up in exactly the wrong way to pick up a cat, stroking her fur and crooning a chorus of “kitty cat, kitty cat.”

The phantom rattling of pills in his pocket cut through any sound in the house, but Evan just kept smiling for the customers.

He never used to smile before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyy fam
> 
> yeah so uuhhhh  
> comment good shit i guess


	7. vanilla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In late November, Evan woke up to a soft dusting of snow on the ground.

In late November, Evan woke up to a soft dusting of snow on the ground. 

It was cold in the little bedroom, and Evan wrapped the blankets around him as he watched the snow fall. 

In the window was a small cake, maybe the size of his fist. Evan eyed it for a few seconds before bringing the little bun into the kitchen with him.

“You’re up,” Connor greeted him. His hair was tied back in a sloppy bun, and he had abandoned his usual dark denim jacket for a grey apron, revealing a mass of white scarring along his arms. Evan averted his eyes.

On the kitchen table, all types of baked goods and foods had been stuffed as best as they could onto the small surface. It looked like Connor had been up all night making food.

Connor wiped his floury hands on his apron. “It’s Thanksgiving, remember?” 

Of course. That’s what all those weird calls were about. That’s why Connor kept asking Evan if he had any good turkey recipes. “Oh,” Evan said, like an idiot.

“And,” Connor virtually sang this, pointing to the cake in Evan’s hands, “it’s been a month since you got here.”

“Oh,” he repeated.

Connor snorted. “You need to chop the carrots. My sister’s coming in, like, three hours and I don’t know if you know this, but we Murphys can put away food like nobody’s business.”

Evan took a knife from the drawer and went hunting for the carrots, where he finally found them in the baking cupboard. “You, um, you never mentioned a sister.” 

“I don’t really… talk about my family much. As you’ve probably noticed.” Connor shrugged. “But she’s nice and I like having her over. I consider it retroactive niceness for all the times I was a dick as a teenager.”

Evan didn’t try to push it.

He noticed, as he worked his way through the carrots, that Connor kept glancing out the window with anticipation, like an excited child waiting for their friend to come over. The pile of food on the table grew.

A car door slammed outside. Connor put down his spoon directly on the hot stove and ran to the door, making Evan lunge for the spoon before the wood got scorched. 

He didn’t see what came next, only heard it.

“Mom.”

 

~

 

“This is quaint,” the woman said. She looked like the epitome of white suburban mother, with light wash blue jeans and a white chunky knit sweater. 

Connor didn’t look happy. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you.” She looked hurt. Years of pain showed in her worry lines, in the way she held herself. As if she was waiting for the next attack. “I could always leave if I’m not wanted...”

Connor sighed. “No.” The woman put her hand on Connor’s arm, who flinched at the featherlight touch. Like he did with Evan. Like, he realized, he did with everyone. “Sit down. Please.”

The woman, instead of sitting down, came over to Evan. “I’m Cynthia,” she said, sticking out her hand. Evan took it; her hands were soft and she had light pink nail polish on. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“I’m Evan, um, Ev-Evan Hansen.” He attempted a friendly smile. “I’m Connor’s friend.”

“Are you visiting for the holidays as well?” She asked. 

“No, I, uh, I live here.” 

Her mouth formed a perfect ‘O’. “Connor never mentioned a bo-”

“Let’s sit down, mom!” The other guest intervened, steering Cynthia away from Evan. “We wouldn’t want to be in the way.”

“Yeah, Zo.” Connor shot daggers at her. “I was only expecting one person, after all.” 

“I’m Zoe,” she said. Thankfully, she didn’t try to shake his hand. “I’m Connor’s sister. I’m sure he’s mentioned me?”

“Uh- once.”

“Fucker.”

Cynthia frowned.

Connor sighed and led the two women over to the chairs by the fireplace: the old leather one that Connor had had forever and the new one; blue-and-white gingham that they had picked up off the sidewalk for Evan. Zoe took the gingham.

Connor then turned back to the kitchen, taking the knife from the counter Evan had used to cut the carrots and started slicing potatoes rather aggressively. Without saying a word, Evan reached over his shoulder and took the knife from his hand. 

Connor rolled his eyes. “Hansen. I can cut potatoes.”

“No, you can’t.” Evan nudged Connor out of the way and took over the task of slicing the potatoes. “You can shred the cheese.”

Connor stuck his tongue out in protest. “I’m supposed to be your superior.”

Zoe interrupted the vignette by loudly proclaiming, “get a room!”, earning a smack on the arm from her mother.

Evan had almost forgotten they were there.

 

~

 

Eventually, dinner came together and the four crowded around the small table to eat.

Cynthia said a short grace, which Connor and Evan both sat out.

Evan felt like he ate more than he had ever eaten in his life. At his house, Thanksgiving meant going to a 24 hour IHOP and getting neverending pancakes with his mom. But this… damn.

It seemed as if Connor had folded magic into each and every bite. 

“How’s college going?” Connor asked through a mouthful of potatoes. 

Zoe smiled. “It’s great! The robotics team went to nationals the other week. We got fifth place, but still. Nationals!”

“What, um, what are you doing?” Evan asked.

“I’m majoring in mechanical engineering with a minor in music production.” Zoe said, grabbing a plate of Evan’s meticulously sliced carrots. “They call me the queen of shitty robots.”

The table was quiet for a couple beats.

“I’m sorry your father wasn’t able to come,” Cynthia blurted.

Connor frowned. “I’m having a better time without him, believe me.”

“He’s just- he has a work thing. I tried to get him to come, but he wouldn’t budge. You know how he can get.”

“Yeah.” Connor said flatly. “I do.”

“You really should give him a chance-”

“No!” Connor stood up from the table. Evan caught his chair before it fell over. “I’m done giving second chances. I didn’t invite you, and I sure as hell didn’t invite Larry. Maybe you should accept that I’m happy here without you assholes!”

Zoe, although she wasn’t necessarily sporting a stony demeanor, didn’t look gobsmacked. “Con-”

“No. Fuck you!”

And in the blink of an eye he was gone, the bedroom door slamming shut behind him.

Cynthia’s face was contorted like someone had snuck a whole lemon in her turkey.

“You shouldn’t have done this, mom.” Zoe said grimly. “He was fine before.”

Cynthia looked crushed. “I just- he’s my son.”

Evan stood up.

“Don’t,” Zoe warned. 

“I had to come,” pleaded Cynthia. 

The doorknob was cold to the touch. 

Connor lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling and frowning as if attempting to float up off the bed by using only his mind and stubborn conviction. 

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Evan faltered. “I-I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“No.” Connor seemed to think for a second about the right way to phrase whatever he was going to say next. “You shouldn’t be here, I mean. You should be living in New York or LA or whatever the big city is for twentysomethings chasing their dreams. I don’t need company.”

“Oh.”

“I mean, come on. What are we trying to do? It’s not like we’re lifelong friends or any shit like that.” Connor lifted his arm into the air, tracing something above his head Evan couldn’t quite see.

“Yeah.”

There was thick, tense silence in the room. Connor closed his eyes. Evan was pretty sure that his frown had become too deeply etched into his face by now and that it would never go away. What had it looked like when Connor smiled?

“I tried to kill myself when I was seventeen.”

“Wh-what?”

“Yeah.” Connor took a deep, elongated sigh. As if by the time he finished breathing, everything would be fixed. “I, uh… I had a lot of problems in high school.”

“If- If it’s-” Evan took a tentative step closer to the bed. “What happened?”

“It was- I had tried three times before.” Connor sat up with difficulty. “When dinner’s over, I’m going to get rid of the fucking pills in the cellar.”

“What?”

“Do you know how fucking hard it is to sleep when there’s a perfect way out five feet from you and every part of your brain is telling you to just… go for it?”

The act of nodding pained Evan. His head felt like a bowling ball. “Uh- yeah.”

Connor stood up. “Jesus, Hansen.” 

Evan instinctively reached a hand out, and before he could retract it, Connor had pulled him into a tight embrace. 

“You’re too good for this shithole.” Evan awkwardly brought his arms up to reciprocate. “Move to New York, why don’t you?”

“If I-I wasn’t here, you still wouldn’t know what the Mason-Dixon line is.” 

Connor pulled away from the hug and smiled. “I never needed to.”

“Do you need me to clean up?”

Connor shook his head ever so slightly. “I’m a grown man. I can face my mom.”

Evan placed a hand on Connor’s scarred arms, and for once he didn’t flinch away. Connor shot Evan a sly smile and took his hand, leading him out of the small bedroom. 

“I see you tamed the beast,” Zoe said with a knowing grin.

Connor flipped her off. Cynthia frowned, but the worry lines on her forehead had subsided; her face was softer and relieved.

“Who wants dessert?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah so uh this is a sort of shit chapter but whatever,
> 
> happy days to y'all   
> please give kudos and comment and all that good stuff


	8. strawberry juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With December came cold, snowy weather.

With December came cold, snowy weather.

It seemed there was a constant fire crackling in the fireplace. There were always candles lit. Connor had stuffed a towel under the doors to stop cold air from seeping in.

One warm day, a visitor came.

It had stopped snowing for maybe the first time that week, and everything was perfectly still.

Connor had been teaching Evan a song, and Evan had been fumbling along, trying to find the melody. The whole house smelled like spiced cider and the gingerbread Connor had baking in the oven.

There was a knock at the door.

Connor set down his mug and unfolded himself from his curled-up perch on the chair. He opened the door to a young woman, her cheeks red with cold.

Connor smiled halfheartedly. “Claire.”

“Oh, it smells amazing in here!” The woman, Claire, immediately pushed past and came directly to Evan. “Who are you?” She asked in a reedy, overbearing voice. “I might need another love spell if you’re going to keep this cutie around.”

Evan opened his mouth to say something, but no words would come out.

His face was hot. Eventually, he forced out the only word he could think of. “Sister?”

Both laughed. “No,” Connor explained. “She buys shit from me. This is Claire Atkins. Claire, this is my Hansen.”

“Weird name,” Claire deadpanned.

“It’s, um, it’s Evan, actually.”

Connor steered her away and towards the table, hastily picking up the mess they had left from breakfast. “What do you want? True love not working out for you?”

Claire beamed. “Actually, it’s amazing! That true love potion is one of the only that has actually worked for me. Me and Tim are very happy together. Oh! Speaking of which…” She pulled a small ziplock bag from her purse. “I brought cookies. They’re the peanut press ones I told you about. I only packed a handful, though; I didn’t know you had company.”

“Well, thank you.” Connor sat in his chair at the table and folded his arms. “Did you just come to deliver holiday cheer, or do you need something?”

Claire joined him at the table. “I want you to read my tarot cards.” She pronounced it like ‘carrot’.

“I think I’ll be able to manage that. Hansen, can you get the deck from the shelf? Yeah, the purple box.” Connor took the box from Evan’s hands. “I can teach you how to read tarot.”

In one swift move, Connor fanned the cards across the table. “Pick six.”

Evan marveled at the ease in which he handled the cards. When he was little, his mom had tried to teach him how to shuffle. Evan’s Auntie Susie was an avid card player, and her rule was that anyone who wanted to step foot in her house needed to be able to shuffle and deal. Evan had never really gotten the hang of shuffling. Sure, he could shuffle a deck decently, but he would definitely be shot if he ever went to Vegas. Connor dealt with the cards in the way he seemed to handle everything; with grace and passivity.

Somehow, though, the way Connor’s jaw was set disputed the thought.

Claire chose six and Connor arranged the cards into some sort of pattern that Evan didn’t really get.

“This first card is your current situation.” He flipped the card. “You have The Sun. You have an abundance of happiness right now. Let me guess, Tim?”  
Claire giggled and nodded.

“This is a time of pleasure, vitality, and good health. The Sun symbolizes an ending of hardships and a time to spend with loved ones.”

“Loving it already.”

“The next card is what you desire most.” Connor flipped it and set it on the table with a satisfying ‘fip’. “The Moon. You want clarity. You want less of the emotions that make you confused and vulnerable. If you use your intuition to guide you, you will navigate past deception and everything will turn out alright in the end.”

“How do, um, how do you know this?” Evan asked.

“I have a book of interpretations. I’ll show it to you later. You practice and learn.” Connor hovered his fingertips over the next card. “This is what you fear.”

One by one, the cards were revealed. Claire’s emotions fluctuated with each card, grinning at some and frowning at others.

Evan watched, rapt.

When all the cards were revealed, Claire sat back in her chair with a look of enchantment gracing her face. “Wow.”

“Well, there you have it.” Connor gathered the cards and shuffled them back into the deck. “Anything else?”

“I don’t think so.” Claire smiled and stood up. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, well, this is my job.”

Claire pressed a wad of bills in Connor’s hand with an unreadable tilt to her smile. “It’s more than a job, I can tell.”

Connor grinned. “See you around, Claire. Tell me how it goes with Tim.”

“Will do.” She made her way to the door but stopped before opening it. “Maybe make some of that love potion for yourself. The sexual tension in here is awful.”

“Claire, wh-”

But she was gone.

~

Winter meant Yule, which Evan came to learn was a pagan holiday not unlike Christmas. Evan, being Jewish, didn’t know that much about Christmas, but he knew enough to see the similarities.

Connor wasn’t really Wiccan, he discovered, but celebrated the most important sabbats. Like someone who only goes to church on Christmas and Easter, he explained. Which still sort of went over Evan’s head.

Every morning Evan woke up to music. He would venture out of the small bedroom and watch, from the doorway, Connor kneeling by the window as he sang the sun awake.

He didn’t really know the songs; they were old folky songs, smooth and soothing. Connor’s voice was clear with intent. Evan couldn’t even tell if it was words that came from him; it was pure music, the kind that calmed the soul.

When he finished singing, Connor would turn to Evan, smirk, and say, “enjoy the show?”

Evan would smile and turn to go back to sleep.

He didn’t really know what Connor did after that. Maybe he went back into the cellar to sleep, maybe he started his day. Some mornings, Evan heard him bustling about the kitchen, but other days it was dead silent in the little house.

One morning, in the last days of December, Evan rose at dawn to the sound of song.

Like clockwork, he made his way to the door and watched Connor’s hunched back by the window.

“And ilk a bird sang o’ its love,

Then fondly sae did I o’ mine.

With lightsome heart I put a rose

Full sweet upon its thorny tree;

And my fause lover stole my rose,

But oh, he left the thorn with me.”

Connor turned to face Evan with the smile of someone who comes to expect the same pleasant event, like one comes to expect coffee in the morning.

“Enjoy the show?”

“You know it.” Evan watched Connor get up and wipe invisible specks of dust off of his knees. “What, um, what are you doing now?”

“I’m going the fuck back to sleep,” Connor answered. “It’s cold in that cellar but warm in my bed. Don’t expect me up before noon.”

Evan turned back and eyed his bed. “Why don’t… why don’t you, um, sleep in my room? It’s warm, and-and there’s plenty of room.”

Connor frowned ever so slightly. “No, really, I’m fine.”

“I-I just don’t want you to be cold.”

Connor looked at Evan, then to the door to the cellar, then back. He repeated this a few times, seemingly weighing his options. “You know what? Sure. I’ll get my sheets and stuff from downstairs and I’ll make a little bed on the floor. It is my room, after all.”

“Nono, you can sleep on the bed. I, um, I can sleep on the floor. It doesn’t bother me.”

“You’re the guest. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“I-I think we’re past the ‘guest’ stage by now,” Evan countered. “I used to go camping with my mom, I can sleep on the floor.”

“You know what?” Connor said, exasperated. “We’ll share the fucking bed.”

“N-no, I-”

Connor yawned largely. “C’mon, Hansen. I need sleep.” He grabbed Evan’s arm and pulled him towards the bedroom. Evan followed with little resistance.

Almost immediately, Connor collapsed on the side of the bed furthest from the door. “Oh, I forgot how nice this bed is.”

Evan awkwardly sat on the other side. His internal monologue wanted nothing more than to run and never come back. The last time he had shared a bed with someone was when he would have sleepovers with Jared in elementary school. By middle school, he had convinced Evan that sharing beds was ‘weird’ and ‘babyish’. So one of them would take the bed and one would take the floor. By freshman year, they had stopped having sleepovers altogether.

Eventually, Evan lay down on his side of the bed, careful to take up as little space as possible. Connor was a sheet hog, and Evan’s arm was uncomfortably exposed. It was too bright in the room, and Evan wanted to get up and close the curtains but didn’t want to disturb Connor, who was cocooned in blankets (Connor wrapped himself in the sheets so that his entire head was covered with only his nose sticking out, presumably for air) and softly humming Darling, Won’t You Wait under his breath.

So he lay there, cold and uncomfortable and near to falling off the bed. After what seemed like an eternity, he heard Connor’s breathing even out and soft snores emanating from his side of the bed. Evan wrenched his eyes shut and tried to sleep. It felt like he was lying there for hours with his eyes closed tight, but before he knew it he was woken up by Tituba meowing at the door, complaining about her lack of food. The sun was high, and Evan really regretted not drawing the curtains. Connor had shifted over the night, and Evan could feel the weight of his arm across his chest.

After an uncomfortable amount of time and a disconcerting amount of wailing on Tituba’s part, Connor stirred to life.

“Wh- titty?”

Evan snickered in spite of himself.

Connor sat straight up. “H-what?”

“It, um, it was too cold in the basement, so we decided to share this room for the night.” Evan rubbed at his eyes. “Also, you called the cat tit-titty.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Connor slurred, stretching and accidentally hitting Evan in the face in the process. “It’s to early for this shit.”

On the shelves, the sun refracted through the bottles on the shelves. Honey, syrups, and that mysterious red bottle of wine from Evan’s very first day at Birchwood. There were slices of orange hanging in all the windows; Connor had bought a whole crate of half-price deformed oranges, sliced them, baked them, and strung them. They created a beautiful stained glass effect, and Connor insisted they were traditional Yule decor.

“Okay.”

Evan’s heart raced for the rest of the day, though he wasn’t quite sure why.

They baked cookies and made a Yule log and Connor taught Evan about the maiden and the crone and all of that. Evan didn’t really get it, but he would listen to Connor talk for hours if it meant he could watch his face, framed by loose hairs and highlighted by the glow of the fire, as he lit black candles and hummed to a rhythm all of his own.

Connor found an old bottle of what seemed like wine in Evan’s room and they drank the bottle over cookies one night. 

Evan must’ve been pretty tipsy, because he couldn’t stop thinking how… nice Connor’s face looked in the firelight.

“This is the life,” Connor said, tipping the dregs into his plastic tumbler. “Ya know, Evan, I could go on forever like this.”

Evan giggled. “Y-you called me Evan?”

“It’s your name, isn’t it?”

“You ne-never called me m’ first name before. Just Hansen.”

Connor grinned and giggled along with Evan. “I guess so, Evan,” he said, dragging out the name as long as he could.

It was warm in the house, and when Evan climbed back into his bed at the end of the day it felt empty. He couldn’t help but long for the feeling of Connor’s body sharing the bed with him, but he knew it was just the wine. He could feel it seeping every pore, filling his body with heat.

In the morning, Evan woke to the sound of song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyy guyss  
> hows it hanging'  
> please comment and give kudos please  
> (also, what if i made a deh murder house (ahs) au? tell me in the comments if u would read that shit)  
> see ya later


	9. apple juice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor felt heavy.

Connor felt… heavy.

Nothing felt quite right. 

He trailed off in the middle of sentences; he stared into space.

And Connor could tell Evan was worried. Because for a long time, Connor’s solution to pain was doing. Get up and make breakfast, sweep the house, water the plants. His rational brain told him he was using simple tasks to get him up and at ‘em so he didn’t stay bedridden all day, but something deep in his gut told him to move as much as possible before he finally dropped.

This was a big difference from high school. Sometimes, even Connor looked back on his high school self and was surprised at how much he had changed. In high school, if hit by a wave of depression, it would be his natural instinct to fake sick, stay home, and sleep. And probably smoke. 

Deep down, Connor wanted to sleep all morning and go down to the CVS to buy cigarettes, chainsmoke packs at a time and blow the smoke out the window. But instead he forced himself to keep moving. 

Every body part felt heavy. 

On the last day of Yule, Connor sang the sun awake at dawn. He loved the practice, and it was an experience like no other. But it certainly was a pain in the ass to wake up before dawn every morning. 

After his song and his prayers to the goddesses, Connor wrapped himself in a heavy blanket and sat himself in his old armchair by the fire. He didn’t bother lighting it, just sat and tried not to freeze to death.

It was nice of Evan to let Connor sleep in his bed the other day, but Connor didn’t plan on doing it again. That being said, the thought of climbing back into his frozen cot in the basement was horrific to behold. He was tempted to bring the cot up and set it up in the bedroom, pushed against the far wall. 

It ached to remember lying in his own bed, seeing the sun refracted through the jars in the window. Everything ached in general.

Evan came out of his room late. Usually, he would be waiting in the doorway before Connor stopped singing. 

“What’s wrong?” He asked. Evan’s voice broke the silence of the morning, like someone talking for the first time in a long time during a slow, quiet car ride. It cut through the hum of the engine and the pristine silence of the morning.

Connor didn’t turn to face him. “Nothing.”

“You- it seems like you've been… weird? Lately? I don’t know if- I mean, it’s probably nothing, but. You’ve been acting different.” Evan tugged at the bottom of his shirt, a cheap thing they had bought at target.

“You don’t know how I usually act.” Connor said sullenly. “You barely know me. I don’t even fucking know you.”

“Y-yes, you do.” Evan tried to argue, but he couldn’t land a blow.

Connor could. 

“I know that you’re a clingy freak who passed out on my lawn and won’t leave me alone.”

Connor looked away. He didn’t need to see Evan’s face to know the look on it. 

He ached.

“Do-”

“Fucking go away!” Connor snapped. 

Evan made a pathetic little whimpering sound, but there were no telltale footsteps going away from Connor’s chair. 

It took a minute to realize he was crying. 

Connor faced Evan. He was in shambles; Evan clutched at his arms as if providing for himself the comforting embrace he craved, but he made no noise. 

And Connor just felt empty. His bare feet were dusty; the nagging in his head told him that he needed to sweep.

But it was too late for that.

Connor wanted to apologize. He really did. But when he opened his mouth, all that would come out was a dry choking sound.

Eventually, painfully, Evan turned and walked outside. Into the snow and bitter winds in nothing but ratty Target pajamas. 

Finally Connor could move. 

Tituba meowed at the open door. She had never liked the cold and preferred to stay in the warm house during the winter. But the door was open and old snow was blowing in, filling the small cottage with arid wind and ice.

Connor moved to get up out of his seat, where his limbs ached as if he had been exercising for a week non-stop. But he followed Evan outside, the blanket around his shoulders billowing like a cape in the wind.

Evan was walking down the road, as if to walk all the way into town and find somewhere else to stay.

He was leaving.

This was what Connor was afraid of. Getting too invested and then losing it all. 

Connor called out for Evan, but his voice got carried away in the wind, sending a flock of birds scattering into the sky.

And Evan just kept walking. 

Connor wanted to run after him. After all, he didn’t have that much of a head start, and Connor’s legs were longer. 

But his feet felt nailed to the ground. He felt heavy and wrong and all he could do was watch as the beating heart of Birchwood disappeared into the howling wind and snow. 

Connor was shattered.

He didn’t like to accept the fact that he had taken to Evan’s presence, but it was the truth. 

He still flinched when Evan touched him. He didn’t like people touching him; he had been like that forever. But Evan was different. He didn’t want to shy away. 

Connor stood outside of his house for too long. His blanket provided little comfort.

God, Evan must be freezing.

Once more Connor called out. 

Even he couldn’t hear his voice. 

 

~

 

There were plenty of spells to bring someone to you. 

There were spells to make the love of your life show up on your doorstep. There were spells to keep a cheating man faithful to you. There were even spells to bind someone to a place, which seemed a bit harsh to Connor. 

But between the pages of his worn-down grimoire, there was no spell to bring your apprentice/only friend back to your house after you had fucked everything up. 

So Connor had to improvise. 

Improvisation with magic was along the lines of diving off a cliff you discovered yourself. Half exciting, half terrifying. 

Connor scoured through his grimoire and the vague, dusty corners of his memory to cut and paste together muddled spells. The pair of shoes Evan had been wearing when he came to Birchwood were nailed to the bottom of the house. The potion to draw your one true love to your house was altered- yellow rose petals, for friendship, instead of red.

Connor’s last effort was an old spell. Burning, along with a mess of spices, something belonging to the person you desired. But Evan had come to Birchwood with nothing but the clothes on his back and… 

Into a raging bonfire went the small orange bottle of pills. He hadn’t thrown them away after all; he couldn’t bring himself to. Connor watched as the plastic drooped and the label for someone who was not Evan curled up and dissolved into ashes. 

As the fire died, Connor didn’t quite know what to do.

So he prayed and chanted and sang and cried. 

That night, Connor slept in his own bed, alone, like he had for years beforehand. 

But it was wrong, all wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo yo yo  
> i've been mia for a while sorry  
> this is an angsty chapter??? this was supposed to be a fluffy fic gdi  
> comment please i crave
> 
>  
> 
> listen to this song:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oZEhc3j2t8I


	10. finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bet you thought you'd seen the last of me

Evan went home. 

Didn’t look back. 

He got a bus and scammed his way back to his hometown, where he knocked on his mother’s door with an icicle in his chest and a stone of guilt in his gut.

Birchwood was always warm, even in the cold months.

So why was he shivering?

Every night Evan jolted awake from nightmares. Or at least he thought they were nightmares. He would go back to Birchwood but find it boarded up and dilapidated, long abandoned. And Evan would sit down on the stoop and cry.

He would wake up to find hot tears on his cheeks.

So he became a nanny.

Why, he couldn’t say. 

He was still ridden with anxiety and the thought of having anybody’s-much less a child’s- life in his hands was terrifying.

But there was a nice single mother down the street who traveled a lot for work with two adorable little twin girls and Evan found himself as their full-time babysitter.

The girls, Ruth and Delilah, were sweethearts. 

Ruth had an imaginary friend named Connor O’Malley and everytime she mentioned him, Evan felt that icicle stab further into his chest.

He still cried at night.

He had a scare with pneumonia in September and as he lay in the hospital, rueing over all he hadn’t done, Evan realized he had never told Connor he loved him.

Evan loved Connor.

He loved Connor.

When did he start loving Connor?

That weird, rude, Irish witch had wormed his way into Evan’s heart and Evan found himself sobbing grossly in his hospital bed, so much so that the nurse came in to make sure he wasn’t dying.

But he might as well have been, because he could never tell the man he loved that he loved him. 

When October rolled around, the girls’ mother was going to be out of town on a business trip, and he was tasked with taking them trick-or-treating.

Ruth was going to be a pirate and Delilah was going to be a sorceress, just like in her favorite books.

Delilah demanded that they go out of town, where the people didn’t know them and would be ‘surprised by their cuteness and will give more candy.’

For a ten-year-old, she was shockingly clever.

So Evan consented and drove them to the next town over in his beat up Subaru. Ruth and Delilah instantly connected with a group of other kids, also chaperoned by a strung-out twentysomething. 

These kids were natives to the town, and they were dead set on visiting the “spooky house.”

Evan turned to their chaperone. “Is- what’s the spooky house?”

“Oh, it’s totally safe,” he answered. “The guy who lives there is pretty friendly. The kids just like having somewhere mysterious, you know?”

Evan nodded and they agreed that Evan would accompany the group to the spooky house, with the town residents leading the way.

The kids marched proudly through town, ecstatic to be in charge for once. They turned onto a familiar wooded road and Evan felt a little bit of ice in his heart begin to melt.

As they walked down the road, memories came alive between the trees, as alive as the children darting around his feet.

Slowly, the house came into view.

Birchwood was lit joyously from the inside.

The roof was sagging and the paint was peeling, but it was as fresh in Evan’s memories as the first time he set eyes on the place.

There was a group of kids huddled on the porch and in the center was Connor, strumming his guitar with that stupid Target witch’s hat perched on his head.

As they grew closer, Evan could hear that voice he had been itching to hear for years.

“Run away, go find a lover;

Run away, let your heart be your guide.

You deserve the deepest of cover;

You belong in that home by and by.”

His voice was just like Evan remembered: high and sweet and pure. The music came from his soul and the kids didn’t seem to mind. They were busy chewing their candy apples.

The parents scattered around the porch, however, seemed to sense something. Every one of them had a large smile on their face, almost as if Connor’s voice was lifting ages of stress from their backs.

Evan could feel his own smile growing as well.

“You belong among the wildflowers;

You belong somewhere close to me.

Far away from your trouble and worry,

You belong somewhere you feel free.”

Evan could hear the anguish in his carefree music. 

He finished the song and the parents around all clapped and went about collecting their kids.

Evan’s charges bravely approached the porch.

Connor looked at them first, handing each a homemade candy apple from the large tray next to his chair and grinning in that way of his.

Evan could feel the warmth of Birchwood spreading from his chest outward, melting the ice embedded inside that he had almost grown used to.

Finally Connor looked up.

They locked eyes and Evan knew.

“There you are,” Connor said, as if Evan had simply gone to another room for a minute and gotten lost. “I knew you’d find your way back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay the guilt of having this unfinished was killing me.
> 
> thanks to everyone who was a part of this with me. Special thanks to the people who made fanart, I love you.
> 
> peace out.

**Author's Note:**

> uuummm hi. uh. this is a really weird fic and i'm sorry?? but i hope y'all like it. thanks pals.
> 
> please talk to me on tumblr at smolweedboi or on insta at connormurphywho i really like meeting people
> 
> please. talk to me. i need friends


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